Man.

One minute you're looking for some honest work at the local port loading and offloading cargo, and the next you find yourself stuck in a contract with a bunch of ruffians you're pretty sure are smuggling illegal goods right under the Sultan's nose. 

Everett sits at a table alone, the odd one out from a group of very loud and rowdy sailors who are indulging themselves after a generous payday with some relatively harmless gambling. Well, harmless until accusations of cheating start being thrown around, then it would likely quickly turn into a blood bath. It hasn't come to that yet, but the half-elf feels like he's seen situations devolve like that a million times before, yet he can barely recall any real details about such occasions. 

He swirls what's left of his drink at the bottom of his mug. Some of his memories have been clearing up with time, but only in bits and pieces like a torn map being slowly put back together. He knows how to sail a ship around Charon, and he knows a handful of spells and how to use a sword. Beyond that, much is still hazy. The alcohol doesn't help, but it's more of a social thing at this point, or maybe to numb some of the anxiety about not knowing the answers to pretty basic questions. 

How'd you lose your arm?

Don't know. 

Where are you from?

Don't know. 

Why can't you remember?

Don't know. 

He lets out a long sigh as he leans back in his chair and surveys the gambling hall. He studies the chairs, the tables, the walls, the ceilings... none of it rings any bells. 

A chime clinks at the door as some new patrons enter. 

Nope. Still nothing. He downs the rest of his drink and rests his head back as someone at a roulette bemoans the inevitable loss of more money than they should have reasonably anteed up. 

---

Location description

SPOILER: Click to show

If the housing districts represent the divide, the Dusty Refuge is the great equalizer. Its reputation of being the finest gambling hall in the city attracts citizens and foreigners alike. Through unassuming doors of a building with an unremarkable visage, a wonder of silks and lush carpets hazy with colorful smoke from hookah pipes assaults the senses of the visitor. Exotic food prepared with exotic spices water the eyes and mouth, served by exquisite waitstaff with flowing drinks keeps patrons in their seats and losing money to the house and each other.

Man.

    Flint could feel his coin pouch getting lighter as the evening went on, each bet spelled more money down the drain. The ever lucky cowboy lost round after round of roulette, and just when it seemed that lady luck was shining down on him the ball would roll to the opposite color. He had survived fighting an actual god not too long ago and thought his luck would never run out, yet here he was at a roulette table losing every single bet he put on the table.

     "Gods fuckin' dammit, this damn game's rigged!" he shouted as he slammed his hardened fists into the table's edge, leaving it almost splintered where he had impacted. He stormed off to the bar with a huff, grumbling to himself about lady luck he lit himself one of his last cigarettes from his pack. It seemed that everything of his was running low, his coin, his smokes, his luck, and most importantly his patience; sooner or later he would end up punching someone and gods help whoever that was. He leaned himself against the wooden bar and motioned towards the bartender "Just gimme the cheapest thing you got, I just need to get drunk with the least amount of coin" The human bartender nodded as he slid a mug of a foamy brackish liquid towards Flint, "Much obliged partner" He grimaced as he let go of some of the only solars he had left.

    He scanned the rest of the gambling house, eyes lingering on the group of sailors before locking onto a one armed half-elf. He took a swig of his drink, almost spitting it out once the taste hit his tongue; and made his way to the one-armed man. He plonked his mug onto the table and pulled a chair alongside him, "well Howdy stranger, what's got you lookin' so down. Did lady luck decide it wasn't your evenin' either, cause it sure as hell ain't mine." He let out a hearty chuckle at his own misfortune, and perked up as he remember something. "Ah where my manners, the name's Flint Caldwell; The Blazin' Heart of the Desert. Well only I call myself that but it'll stick eventually and you are?" He introduced himself with his signature hat tip, wink and a smug smirk.

Man.

Why did she torture herself like this? Always coming back to empty halls and dark rooms. The Villa was a dead place, nature already taking over. The black rose, once so tenderly cared for, now extending its spiky vines all along hedges and statues. It's Master been long gone, but she still returned to check, hopeful.

Only for that hope to die again.

Stop that.

Whenever she came to Zeinav, the sands didn't let her forget him - vanished from her life as fast and mysteriously as he entered. She wasn't one to sulk, but she had hoped that the recent happenings around the world would make for the trip to Zeinav an easier one, but it didn't get any easier.

By the hells, what was she doing. She needed a drink. And perhaps some trouble. And she knew a place for that.

Gladly, Zeinav still didn't often recognize her on sight, specially when she wrapped herself with the finest silks the desert had to offer. Black silk, spotted with patterns of silver stars and moons, and some occasional, fine jewelry, with only her eyes peeking through the fancy veil. The kind of sight that brought curiosity towards the sailors table, a few heads turning and whispers following.

The Witch wasn't a gambler, but if there was a place that only needed a spark for trouble to begin, it was one where coin and drink flowed endlessly. As she stepped into the place, she went straight for the bar to take a look at what she'd been having today. Not a moment after she entered, the soft flutter of wings announced the raven coming in from the open window. Not the most common patron, but a patron indeed. Its beetle eyes inspected the place, until he deemed the sailor's table a fun one. He went ove there, only to be imediatelly shooed away, cawing indignantly as he left a few black feathers behind. He stopped only when he found a calmer table, one shared by two men. The raven took a curious, deep look towards both of them.

"CAWWW! Hello!"

The cawing got her attention, and she sighed as she saw Mischief already found someone to pester. Looking over the table he chose, however, her eyes lit up as she actually recognized one of them! Oh! What a perfect way to find him again! She's never seen the other man with him, but that was only a matter of time.

"Bring two of your best ale to that table, please. On me."

Her rings clacked softly against the glass of red that was put before her, as she rose, just in time to see the raven dunk its head fully on Flint's drink - as he always did - splattering ale and feathers all around the table as it cawed angrily at both man, as if this was their doing, and not the consequences of his own actions.

Kamille rushed to the table to contain her mischievous child.

Everett moves his head back to its proper upright position, wide-eyed that someone has just joined him at the table. 

Howdy stranger. 

Howdy? He hasn't heard that one before. What a strange greeting. Is it short for "How is your day"? That seems right.  

"Nice to meet you, Flint. Everett Reykas. No title, or fancy moniker." At least none he remembers. 

"No, can't afford to do any gambling, especially with this lot of cheats and thieves." He gestures towards the group of rowdy sailors. "I know a bad storm when I see one, and I'd rather not be swindled out of what meager coin I have to my name."

He'd noticed the man had already made that mistake, probably losing a fair amount of coin to the swindlers and cutthroats. Despite that, the man still was in a friendly mood. That could mean one of two things. Either Flint's no stranger to taking a few punches to the ego, or he's planning on something more nefarious for more unsuspecting and vulnerable prey. Everett hopes it's not the latter, while he only has one arm that doesn't mean he can't hold his own. 

"Seems you lost a fair amount. Hopefully, that wasn't all you have, being broke is not fun." He looks at the bottom of his mug before placing it on the table and pushing it away. 

The arrival of one big mysterious raven followed by an equally mysterious woman is a surprise to him. He barely stifles a laugh as the raven plunges its head into Flint's drink and then caws at them like a drowned seagull. 

"Hey, little fella, I don't think we got anything for you."

He looks past the raven as the woman approaches. There isn't much of her face showing, but the glint in her eyes told him more than enough. Looking between the cowboy and the woman, he got the feeling that this pair might be a storm even worse than the smugglers. Their arrival certainly has already changed the atmosphere in the gambling hall quite a bit, with the woman, in particular, garnering a fair amount of attention and curious glances. Some of the sailors at the other table whisper and nudge one another with snickers and suspiciously toothy smiles. 

Oh boy. Here we go. 

Looking back towards the woman, he offers a friendly smile. "Good day, ma'am."

        “Well it’s a pleasure to meet you Everett, and in all honesty I couldn’t afford to do some either but I just had the feelin’ my luck was turn in’ around. But seein’ that these games are rigged this is all I got to my name at the moment.” He reached into his bag and produced a rather pathetic looking coin pouch, he opened the string at the top and held the open side down toward the table. Only about 3 solars clinked onto the table, he let out a heart laugh as he knew he had lost a lot in the last couple of hours but he had no clue it was to this degree. “You’ve got a good eye or you’ve heard me yellin’ each time I lost but your correct I have lost a fair amount, but hey bein’ broke just makes life a little more interesting. It means you gotta be a little more clever with how you get the things you want, for me it’s right brute force it or use my desert charm” he wasn’t lying that it does make life more interesting but he also didn’t like having to sleep in abandoned carts or just on the sand, but he wasn’t going to let that get him down.

        He was about to take another quick swig of his distasteful ale as a large raven suddenly landed and dunked its head into his mug. He attempted to shoo it away “hey get yer beak out of there you bird brain, I paid for that and don’t you dare waist a sip of that” He yanked away his mug and left the raven’s face a sopping mess, even though the drink tasted like death it was better than nothing and it seemed to be working its magic. Soon his good eye locked onto the mysterious figure that waltz up to the table, and he squinted as something seemed familiar about them. He wracked his brain where had seen this person before as the patrons surrounding them started to whisper and nudge each other. He could feel the air of the gambling hall shift as people kept their eyes on the three, something was brewing and honestly the cowboy couldn’t wait for it reach a breaking point. As he rubbed the light stubble on his jaw he lit up recognizing her eyes from not too long ago, he had looked into them as he dropped off of her drake, this had to be the angel dressed in black he met fighting a god “wait a damn second … Miss Kamille is that you?” He asked with a smug smirk.

That only seemed to make the raven even more angry, as it started to loudly caw, flapping its wings at Flint's face and splashing cheap ale all around. The cawing only stopped when the woman approached and, in a well practiced sweeping move, grabbed the raven's feet like one would grab a dead chicken - it has certainly happened a few times before, because the raven didn't seem so surprised. It did make one last move towards Flint and managed to grab the brim of his hat, yanking it out of his head. At least the cawing would stop for a moment.

"Ohhh, I would have hoped to keep a bit of mystery... You see, I'd walk down the table, offer a palm read or something, and talk about how your recent great deeds deserve more than just some cheap ale at the bottom of one of Zeinav's taverns... But oh well! So nice to see you again, Flint! Can I sit?"

The question was certainly rhetoric, as she promptly sat down on the chair before the two men. For a moment she seemed occupied in the task of freeing Flint's hat from Mischief's beak without damaging it. It only happened when the woman fished out of her pocket a huge golden solar, and Mischief imediately released the hat to grab the coin. Finally calmed down like the good gold digger that he was, Mischief was released and flew away with his gold coin.

Kamille finally turned her full attention to the two man, taking off the hood and veil. She was exactly the same as the better part of the last century saw her - smooth, pale skin, dark sparkly blue eyes and a warm smile, one that danced mischievously on her lips and brought dimples to her face. She extended her hand towards Everett.

"I'm sorry for all this trouble! My name is Kamille! And yours...?"

Only then she seemed to notice that the other man with Flint had only one arm, and her eyebrow arched in curiosity. Of course she wouldn't be asking so soon, but certainly that warranted a good story...

"What brings two fine, handsome gentlemen to this place today? The promise of gold? The ale? ......Oh! Ohhhhh! I'm awfully sorry! I hope I'm not interrupting anything........"

Whether she simply didn't notice or didn't care, Kamille apparently disregarded completely the men that were snickering and whispering to each other, while pointing at their table. And to add salt to injury, Mischief flew to one of the beams on the ceiling with his golden coin, tapping it against the wood and looking at the men of the other table. If there was any doubt as if the raven was actually mocking them, Mischief also started to laugh a haunting gurgle while dancing and looking at the men.

At the same time the barmaid brought over more ale for Flint and Everett on her request, the men at the other table all rose in one single move.

"Ah well, I may only have one arm but I still have both my ears and eyes. Wasn't too hard to notice your bad luck streak," he admits. 

"And how's that 'desert charm' working out for you?" He can't help but chuckle at that, not to mock the man, he certainly has charisma that much is clear. It's more that trying to charm salty sailor folk is easier said than done, you're much more likely to get a fist to the teeth for trying to be cute. 

Speaking of trying to be cute, their mysterious visitor who Flint manages to recognize expresses how she had hoped to appear a lot more mysterious for a bit longer, detailing her train of thought and order of operations to two men. Regardless, she's still just as much a mystery to Everett seeing as they have never crossed paths until now. 

Even when she removes her veil and hood, he still is bewildered by her. She's absolutely stunning and reminds him of...

He shakes his head and smiles before reaching for Kamille's hand as is customary when invited for a handshake. "Everett Reykas, nice to meet you Kamille."

"We're just chatting," he reassures her as he withdraws his hand and sits back. "I have no issues with your joining us."

Then his eyes glance past her at the sailors as their chairs scrape against the floorboards in unison. The start to head their way with a clear swagger of drunkenness and far too much confidence to mean anything good. 

"Course that doesn't mean others might not get jealous."

He rests his hand on the hilt of his rapier just in case things are about to get a lot more serious quickly.

While his contract with the sailors was going to pay his expenses for the next few weeks, he wouldn't hesitate to tear that agreement apart if they gave him a good enough reason to. As things at the present moment, it wouldn't take much for him to decide he has a good enough reason to do just that given they were dishonest with him right from the get-go. 

It doesn't take very long for the group of burly sailors to saunter over and fan out to either side to create a semi-circle corral around their table with Flint and Kamille the closest to them and Everett across the table and staring them down. 

    "Tonight hasn't been my lucky night, but hey, at least I scored a free drink... Although I think the bartender was just pityin' my streak of bad luck," he quipped with a hearty laugh as he collected the three solars from the table and stowed them in his coin pouch.

    His attention shifted away from Everett as the raven continued to cause a stir, eventually being scooped up by Kamille, who managed to snatch Flint's wide-brimmed hat from atop his head in a last-ditch effort. For once, Flint was left stunned, mainly by the audacity of the avian menace. With his face fully exposed, the heavy scarring beneath a lightning tattoo and his spiky white hair, left mussed despite its short length, were completely visible. He made several attempts to retrieve his hat, but the corvid expertly dodged his grasp, clearly frustrating the cowboy.

    "Of course, you can sit, Miss Kamille. Just give me a moment to fetch my hat," he said, interrupted by the fluttering of feathers as Mischief escaped to the rafters above, fortunately leaving the hat behind. Feeling almost naked without it, Flint quickly reached over and placed it back atop his head, securing it with a flick of the brim and a relieved sigh. He glanced at Kamille with gratitude in his eyes. "There you go again, savin' my hide once more... though I can't decide what's worse, facing molten lava and an elemental threatenin' to crush me or losin' my hat," he joked, followed by another hearty laugh, playfully nudging Kamille with his elbow.

    As Everett and Kamille exchanged pleasantries, Flint couldn't help but notice a decision being made at a nearby table filled with sailors. The whispers and nods seemed to indicate as much. The cowboy's eyes narrowed as he locked eyes with one of the larger men, sealing an unspoken agreement. Tension built, and the scraping of wood almost silenced the entire building. Flint's expression hardened as a semi-circle of sailors formed around them, one of them brazenly taking a seat next to Kamille. The drunken stranger draped an arm around her shoulders, tankard in hand, and slurred, "Hey, pretty lady, why not join us for a drink instead of these two, huh? How does hic how does that sound?" The strong odor of alcohol wafted from the audacious man's breath. Oblivious, he tipped his tankard too far, spilling his entire ale onto Flint's lap.

    That was the breaking point. In the blink of an eye and without a word, Flint's fist connected with the man's jaw three times, sending him tumbling into the bar behind them. Rising to his full height, his fist releasing a bit of steam, he looked at the other sailors with an excited grin. "Alright, who's next?" he threatened, cracking his knuckles.

Kamille chuckled along as Flint nudged her, helping him with his hat and straightening up the front of his shirt, as she was used to do.

"Your hat indeed lends to your style, I will give you that. But you're not bad without it either."

Taking a sip of her red, she rested her glass on the table and turned to Everett once she seemed satisfied with Flint's clothes. Of course she shouldn't do that, but the urge to ask something about his arm - or its absence - was strong. But then he made a comment about people getting jealous, and for a moment she flashed the most mischievous grin she could muster, as if...

As if the potential of trouble actually delighted her. She wouldn't say it out loud, though, obviously.

"I assume there's nothing to worry if we're all adults minding our own busi-"

The Witch didn't even finish her sentence when the group of sailors approached. The time in her youth spent at Sol City's docks taught her a lot about sailors, and she knew when they were fishing for trouble. Still, the woman still pulled back her shoulders when a heavy arm closed around her, trying to recoil from the man's grasp as his breath wafted her way. She seemed about to say something, when-

WHACK

Flint didn't waste anytime trying to pacify the drunk men - not that there was a way of pacifying drunk sailors, but for a moment she seemed to admire his straighforwardness. He seemed to enjoy it, and she chuckled softly when she felt the weight of the man's arm slide away from her as he was punched by Flint.

It felt like the sound of her chuckle awakened the others into action.

"OY! WHO DYA THINK YA ARE YA SCRAWNY LOUT?!"

The sailor closest to Flint extended his hand towards a chair, hurling it in his direction, and another one followed behind. By the corner of the eye, she saw two more getting up to Everett - before she was rudely pulled out of her own chair, forced to face a big ugly sailor that held her almost out of the floor, both of his hands closed around her arms tightly.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the Witch was faster, with both of her hands extended by her sides, no one noticed when she laced the air around them with a spell...

"Looks like your friend needs a bit of love. Go hug him."[1]

The man's face suddenly went blank, and he instantly seemed to lose interest in the woman, letting Kamille go and instead going to one of the men that were headed towards Everett. Needless to say the man looked incredibly confused when he took an empty bottle from a nearby table, ready to use it as a weapon, when his friend hugged him from behind.

"EY! WHAT?!?"

[1]Serrafleur's Fae Aura

"Little victories," he raises his own mug to Flint. "Your luck is better than mine all things considered." 

He looks between the behatted man and the mysterious woman as he places the mug back down on the table. So they seemed to know each other fairly well. While he doesn't recognize Flint from anywhere in particular, he feels like he recognizes the woman's name, but he's not sure where exactly he heard it before. 

As the sailors make their way over and push their luck, his hand goes from simply resting on the hilt of his rapier to his fingers wrapped around the grip. These sailors are getting way too belligerent for his liking. While he's more than used to the general rudeness and callousness of salty seadogs, he wouldn't tolerate blatant rudeness. He's halfway out of his seat when one of them is bold enough to put their sweaty arm across Kamille's shoulders. 

Aaaaaand the hat guy just punched a smuggler in the face. Welp, now they had a fight on their hands. Fine by him.

He gets to his feet quickly, shoving the chair back out of his way with the intent of jumping to the mysterious woman's aid. However, it hardly seems like she needs it. Looks like the mysterious Miss Kamille can more than hold her own judging by whatever strange magic she cast on one of the sailors who is now getting overly affectionate with one of his drunken crewmates. 

So, instead of worrying about her, he turns his attention to dealing with the sailors who are trying to get the jump on him. As the one struggles against the grip of their charmed ally, the other makes a move to close in on Everett. Preferring to keep the man at a distance, the one-armed half-elf hooks his ankle around the leg of the table and basically kicks it up onto its side to make a barrier between them. The empty tankard he was drinking from earlier goes clattering across the floor. 

He then kicks the underside of the table to knock its face into the man and his two other hugging accomplices. 

Their little squabble was more than enough ignition for the entire powder keg of a bar to go up in metaphorical flames. The man hit with the table staggers back into a gruff-looking dwarf at the next table over, who is quick to kick the man in the shin. Chaos quickly spreads from their corner of the bar across the entire gambling hall as others take advantage of the situation to let their aggression and frustrations loose. 

Tankards go flying, patrons are knocked around into overturned furniture, and one guy is even tossed across the bar's surface after looking at a half-orc the wrong way. The poor staff either make breaks for it or do their best to defuse the situation to no avail. No doubt they'd need to call the local guard to get things to settle down at this rate. 

Everett sidesteps over to Kamille and Flint to watch their backs. He hasn't drawn his weapon yet, and hopefully, deadly force wouldn't be necessary if people weren't complete idiots about things. He takes a breath and feels the hair on his arm stand up on end as a ripple of electricity spikes along his skin's surface. The thin static veil wouldn't do much good against any thrown punches, but at least thrown bottles were less of a concern now.^[1]

---

[1] Static Field

    "I'll show you a scrawny lout, and the name's Flint, so you better damn well remember it!" Flint shouted over the cacophony of starting fights, he cracked his other hand's knuckles in anticipation. His grin widened, heart set ablaze—this was what he had been waiting for.

    Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something hurtling towards him. Swiftly sidestepping, he reached out and caught the airborne object, now realizing it was a whole chair. His eyes locked with the man who had tossed it, and in a split second, he whipped his arm, hurling the chair back at its origin. The sound of splintering wood and a subsequent thud confirmed a direct hit.

    Flint deftly swiped his tankard of ale a split second before Everett flipped the table on its side. "Hey, careful, don't go wastin' good drinks like that," he jokingly chided the half-elf. Tipping his head back, he tried to down as much of the ale as he could, only to halt when a fist collided with the side of his head. Though familiar with getting his bell rung, the force still caused him to stagger back, spilling the remnants of the tankard. Wiping the foam from his mouth, he turned towards the sailor with an inferno in his eyes. "You call that a punch?" Without another word, Flint swiftly rose, delivering an uppercut right to the man's chin, the force knocking the man inches into the air, enabling Flint to follow up with a swift roundhouse kick to the man's chest.

    With the two closest adversaries dealt with, Flint shifted his attention to his companions, relieved to see they were holding their own just fine. However, three more sailors advanced on the group, some tossing bottles at Everett, only for them to shatter against his static field. Flint ducked just in time as a tankard was hurled by another assailant. "Is that all you go-" Before he could finish his statement, the largest of the three men tackled him to the ground. The man began to pummel him, but Flint managed to land a kick. After a brief struggle, Flint tucked his legs towards himself and booted his feet into the man's stomach. The impact sent the man flying, allowing Flint to spring to his feet. He recognized the man as the one he had locked eyes with before all this began. He let out a hearty laugh and exclaimed, "Well, alrighty then! Let's turn up the heat, shall we?" With a flourish of his arms, ²purple radiant fire engulfed his hands as he rushed towards the man.

    The bar continued to descend into a violent storm, as the sound of bottles breaking, cursed and insults in a multitude of languages and sickening thuds echoes throughout the gambling hall. Though one voice could be heard near the entrance as the last of the staff shouted "I'm getting the guards, they'll put a stop to this!" before swiftly exiting.

---

1.) Deflective Palm (1/2)
2.) Burning Smite

Kamille didn’t have a much intimate relationship with tavern brawls - they usually didn’t go well with her self care routine and disagreed with healthy nails. That is not to say she disliked them, as she would never pass on the opportunity to stirr the pot. She admired them as a bird watcher would: looking at them from the distance. Unfortunately for her, she was in the middle of one.

"Well, gentlemen! I enjoyed your company deeply, but I I'm afraid I should be out before the guards arrive!"

Barely keeping up everything that was happening around her, she noticed the one-armed elf appeared close to them, after turning over the table, vaguely registering the sound of her delicate glass of wine meeting the floor. Flint was on the ground, but before she could start stressing out over him, he was already back to his feet. Why it didn’t surprise her how happy he looked in the middle of a brawl? Man could almost as much been born for it!

People have been thirsty for some trouble, because the whole place descended into a confusion of punches and screams and thrown tankards in record time! Ducking to avoid a flying boot, the Witch noticed at least one man marching towards them with the confidence of someone who was less drunk than everyone else, with firm, heavy steps.

"Look at the birdie!"

Hands stretched out in front of her, Kamille threw a bit more chaos into the mix: not a bird, but a whole murder of crows seemed to fly off from her, their black feather seemingly jumping out of the darkness of her black silks [1]. Their cawing and pecking were more than enough to drive a man mad, but for the moment they were just meant to distract the man coming towards them... and while they did distract the man, others around the cloud of black feathers would also yell and curse.

Her plan of using the distraction to slide out through the back door was suddenly cut short by the crack of a whip, of all things. Someone out there seemed to be sane enough to wield such a weapon with some dexterity, pinpointing the fancy lady among the crowd and trying to separate her from the rest. Or that was the theory.

In practice, she heard the whip, and something wrapping around her ankle. The floor quickly came to greet her, and a loud thud made stars pop before her sight, as she faced the ceiling of the stabilishment. Oh. She was on the floor. But wait, the floor was moving too! And who was wailing loudly like a fucking banshee?

Her hands stretched out, reaching for anything that would keep her from being dragged - was that a boot? She grabbed someone's foot, right before her own dangling feet, fighting against the pull of the whip, swept the leg under someone else.

Oh yeah, she was the one screaming too.

[1]Raven storm

Things are escalating quickly. Glass shatters as someone is thrown across the bar counter into the rack of bottles behind it. Someone is already laid out flat on the floor unconscious from a solid right hook to the jaw. Another guy stumbles through a back door while holding his bruised ribs.

It's a mess. And if they don't get out of the middle of the brawl quickly they're going to either get walloped or arrested when the guards finally show up.

Everett's not the biggest fan of fleeing a scene before authorities show up, but he knows that the guards will not likely be willing to listen to anyone they have to round up. It would be easiest to just disappear with minimal trace.

How possible that is in reality is up for debate. Hard not to leave a trace when a flurry of feathers explodes out from thin air. The flock of ravens is unexpected and even catches the half-elf off guard. Thankfully, it doesn't take long for him to realize that the birds are conveniently avoiding pecking his eyes out, so he assumes that means either Kamille or Flint summoned them. People can do that...right?

No, no time for that.

Focus. 

The sound of a whip cracking helps snap him out of it. But before he can determine where its source is, Everett sees Kamille's raven hair disappear from his periphery suddenly. As he turns to help her, he feels someone grab his ankle and pull sharply.

"Ah-"

The whole tavern tips, or at least it looks that way as his boot slides out from under him and he's dropped to one knee. 

Glancing back he spots Kamille splayed out on the floor, being pulled back by a long braided cord. Well, now they know where the whip wielder is. Too bad for Flint that there's a nicely dressed woman underfoot. Everett grabs a knocked-over tankard from the floor and twists around to pitch it at the whip wielder. With all the people roughhousing around, it's hard to get a clear shot at the assailant and he ends up making a blind lob over those jostling with Flint. 

Someone exclaims as the tankard makes contact with their skull, but the tension on the whip doesn't lax. 

Oops. 

Guess he missed. 

    Flint relished in the charged atmosphere of the tavern, finding an exhilarating thrill in the chaos of the brawl that quickened his heart like a revving engine. Navigating through the tumultuous scene, he deftly maneuvered around patrons engrossed in their own scuffles, strategically using their distractions to his advantage. Swift and low, Flint approached a burly sailor, allowing only his fiery fists to stand out amidst the tumult. Closing in, he delivered a powerful right hook that connected with the sailor's jaw.


    The sailor retaliated promptly, landing a solid punch to Flint's stomach. Undeterred, Flint responded with another punch, sparking a furious exchange of blows that escalated in intensity. Despite spitting blood onto the ground, Flint pressed on, fueled by a competitive spirit ignited by his opponent. In a flurry of blazing punches, he sent the sailor sprawling backward. "I'll give you props; not many can go blow for blow with me," Flint praised with a respectful hat tip.

    Surveying the ever-shifting bar, Flint sought out his next target. Spotting a particular fellblood across the room, his attention was diverted by a sudden rush of black feathers emanating from where he recalled Kamille and Everett being. Assuming it was Kamille's doing, Flint exploited the distraction to take advantage of vulnerable adversaries. In the chaotic milieu of a tavern brawl, fighting fair seemed out of place—though, truth be told, Flint was never one to shy away from a dirty fight.


    Just as Flint prepared to unleash a barrage of attacks, the distant sound of a whip crack reached his ears, followed by a scream and a series of thuds. Before he could react, something swept his feet from under him, and he found himself flat on his back. "Gods damnit," he groaned, only to discover that Everett and Kamille were the culprits, with a whip wrapped around Kamille's ankle.


    "Fancy seein' y'all down here. But y'all should get up before ya get stepped on," Flint joked with a smirk as he swiftly regained his footing. His good eye followed the whip into the crowd, leading him to the unexpected wielder- the fellblood he had noticed earlier. "Bullseye," he proclaimed, seizing the taut whip and engaging in a brief tug of war. With a deft maneuver, Flint yanked the fellblood closer and, leveraging the momentum, delivered a satisfying punch square into the man's nose, flattening him out.

There was an easy way out of that, but her easy way out usually involved fire and explosions - and perhaps that was a hitch too much trouble than she wanted to handle that day. And, of course, she didn't want to inadvertedly hurt her companions as well. Eventually she realized that she had managed to down both of them simply in reaction to her falling, and then she let go of Everett's foot. Unlike the two, she didn't seem to recover as quickly, stars still spinning in front of her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Ev-... Everett? Are you hurt?"

Flint was another beast entirely. It looked like he bounced off of the floor, quickly regaining his footing and throwing himself into the chaos as if he'd been expecting it. At least it looked like he was having quite a bit of fun!

The hold on her ankle seemed to relax as Flint grabbed the whip and went to face her attacker - she should probably lend him a hand, even if she knew he wouldn't need it. Raising one hand in Flint's direction, she weaved a spell that have proved time and time again to be useful: Flint would feel his speed abnormally increased for the next couple moments, feeling able to deliver twice as many blows than before [1].

At least now she had the time to unravel the whip from her ankle and try to get up, seeing as both Flint and Everett seemed to be doing just fine.

It didn't take long for the ravens to dissappear as if they never existed, and only then it became clear how loud they were, filling the place with their caws and croaks. Just one remained, and that was clearly Mischief: even from the distance and the chaos erupting all around, they could still see a glint of gold in his beak, certainly his spoils for the night. And before long, the mischievous familiar came to land on his mistress' shoulder, right as she was standing up and helping Everett stand up as well.

"We should get out of here before the guards arrive! We-... What is that, Mischief?"

Mischief was clearly holding in his beak a golden necklace with a locket. And when they looked up, there was one particularly burly sailor making a beeline towards them - and the way the tables and chairs pratically jumped out of his way without much effort, she believed the necklace might've belonged to him about five minutes earlier.

[1]Quicken